Waterhole Saloon | Whiskey and Words

Waterhole Saloon, Stanford, Montana…
Home.
Stanford, Montana
I knew it as a Hutterite
bartering in a gravel parking lot
with a tool salesman
and from the gust of wind
approaching the saloon
blowing wet napkins
across the wood bar top
the stores across the street
where the one sheriff deputy
on duty counting the minutes
refuse to change
and die a slow death.
in the bar
a ranch hand drunk
on Early Times
an old codger
finally out of bullshit stories
getting George Dickle to go
and the bartender
once beautiful
with plans to get out
has had enough
of everyone’s shit.
the air is fat with gangsters
cattle rustlers
I imagine on the run and
If they run here
they would be running from
imaginary pickup trucks.
Nobody cares
about the wanted posters
down at the post office.
This is home because some
go to Great Falls
and come back
saying it’s too big
to revive, you take US 87
speed through Moccasin
ease up at Hobson
fuel up at Eddie’s Corner
get around the combine at Moore
and barrel through Glengary
to Lewistown
your hard earned pay
ready for a choice of bars
a room at the Yogo

and the streets less crowded
glamorous
the buzz of neon
speaking salvation
It’s home because
Arrow Creek eventually
dies into the Missouri
home because you can’t escape
the wind from your hometown
the slow death
dry decay
the feed lot
fewer cuttings
and waning
sweet smells of alfalfa
and comfort
each year
and the Missouri keeps rolling
as your life is filled
with only grim permission.
You can go as out of business here
as the shops
and the ranches
I knew it entering.
five old fashions in
and I’m in some other home.
– Ian A Dundas